Whitewater Gorge The Old Tale-Teller

The she-wolf was so filled with passionate rage that she didn’t flinch at his snarl; a threat she would often coward backward to. No, Chaska was the last thing she had to hold on to and this blood-thirsty stranger ripped it out of her life. It was a constant rolling down a hill, no, mountain surrounded with jagged spears and falling boulders. Her pack, her family, her brother, Silvertip, Easthollow, Steady, and now Chaska. Her anger was diminished as her dying friend choked out words, instantly she shifted in character. 

This was the real Mara, the one that lowered her muzzle towards her friend and feebly attempted to fix his wound by licking it. Despite knowing with all logic it did nothing. Warm tears streamed down her face and a shaky voice begged him. ”Chaska, p-please, I - I can’t be a-alone, you-“ can’t leave me. What was her right to strip him of the honor to finally walk amongst a sin-free paradise? She didn’t dare demand him to stay in a harsh reality she knew far too well. The sudden splatter of blood ripped her every attention on his words, for they were his last and she wouldn’t retract them or their importance by not being heard. The agouti girl sniffed as she took in every struggled syllable. ”Grayday- Morning?” She tried her best not to panic, unable to realize every muscle in her body vibrating from anxiety. What was he trying to say?